


We Were Born Sick

by dhwty_writes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, BUT MAKE IT ANGSTY, Dealing with Homophobia, Emotional Hurt, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, there's a lot of sadness in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26629606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhwty_writes/pseuds/dhwty_writes
Summary: The bard leaned against a pillar and propped one leg on a stool, strumming his lute loudly. Well, maybe he could wait a bit longer. Just a few glances more. Humans were so inattentive; they never saw him looking. If they did, if they suspected even for a moment, he'd be willing to domorethan just stare- Let's say his parting from Blaviken would have been almost idyllic in comparison. 'Prejudiced pricks, the lot of them,' he thought angrily.OR five times Geralt and Jaskier kept their sexuality a secret and one time they were found out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love how we as a fandom somehow collectively decided that homophobia is Not A Thing on the Continent. However, I live for angst. So, naturally, I had to write a fic where this is not the case. I blame [@spielzeugkaiser](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/) for this with their [art](https://spielzeugkaiser.tumblr.com/post/629051755527815168/i-had-an-anon-in-my-askbox-that-asked-for-some) and also their encouragement.  
> I also guess that I should preamble this fic that I felt absolutely horrible and upset writing it. It is (for some parts) not a nice thing to read either. Read the tags. Read the warnings in the notes. Take care of yourselves. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: implied/referenced homophobia, homophobic language

Geralt eyed the bard blaring in the corner warily. Why did humans have to be so _loud_ about everything? It was maddening, truly. Since his own trials he could understand Vesemir's complaints much better. Despite the decades gone by since then, he still envied them sometimes. They at least didn’t have to witness how obnoxious they were. No, most of them appeared to be completely oblivious to their loudness. 

Like this one, for example. It wasn't necessarily that the bard was _bad_ — his voice was pretty enough, as was his face. But his songs were dreadful. And horribly inaccurate at that. As if that wasn't enough, that specimen wasn't just loud in his singing, he was loud about everything else, too. His clothes were too colourful for Geralt's eyes, his smiles too sweet, his gestures to grand. The witcher couldn't wait to finish his drink and be able to get out of the shitty town he was in.

The bard leaned against a pillar and propped one leg on a stool, strumming his lute loudly. Well, maybe he could wait a bit longer. Just a few glances more. Humans were so inattentive; they never saw him looking. If they did, if they suspected even for a moment, he'd be willing to do _more_ than just stare- Let's say his parting from Blaviken would have been almost idyllic in comparison. 'Prejudiced pricks, the lot of them,' he thought angrily.

He could remember Vesemir's stern talk as if it had been yesterday. He had caught him and Eskel behind the barn, entangled in an almost innocent embrace, exchanging not so innocent kisses. With a heavy sigh he had separated them and led them back into the keep. "I won't say a word," he had said, "as long as the two of you won't be slacking. But in a few years the two of you will set out on the Path and humans disdain it when two men lie together."

"Why?" they had asked naively.

"Why do they call us monsters? Why do they abuse their peasants? Why do they despise whores? Most of them can only see as far as their noses. Just be careful, lads."

They had promised him and to this day they had kept their oath. Once on the path Geralt had discovered that he liked a woman's embrace just as well as a man's and that was that. It was alright. Still, he wasn't immune to the charm of a handsome young man. Especially not one with a pretty voice, who-

Who was coming right towards him. Shit.

"I love the way you just... sit in the corner and brood," the young man said with a sly smile and leaned against another pillar. Seemed to be a habit. He had fidgety hands, too. Geralt hated fidgety hands.

"I'm here to drink alone," he grunted and looked away. Best not be caught staring.

"Good, yeah, good," he answered quickly. Geralt could feel curious eyes sizing him up. "No-one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except..." He drew closer. "...for you." Before Geralt had a chance to respond he continued. "Come on," he drawled. "You don't want a man with...," he made an emphatic gesture, "... bread in his pants waiting."

Geralt gritted his teeth. Was this some kind of come on? If so, it was terrible.

"You must have some review for me," he babbled on and took a seat he hadn’t been offered. "Three words or less."

He half expected him to keep on talking. Instead an awkward silence stretched between them. "They don't exist," he answered trying to keep a straight face. 'Shit.' The bard was annoying as fuck, why did he find it endearing?

"What don't exist?" He started fidgeting with his hands again.

"The creatures in your song."

"And how would you know?"

Geralt almost snorted with laughter. Really? 'Why do the pretty ones always have to be that dumb?' Instead of saying _that_ , however, he just glared pointedly.

"Oh, fun." The bard barely kept himself from drumming with his hands and licked his lips. "White hair..." He rubbed his hands and repeated that... tongue thing. Annoyingly adorable. "... big, old loner, two very..." Geralt reached for his coin purse and stood up, leaving his last coin on the table. He had heard quite enough. This conversation was getting out of hand. "... very scary-looking swords. I know who you are."

He grabbed his swords and fled as calmly as possible. Fuck, why was the bard still hurrying after him?

"You're the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia." He gritted his teeth again. Just his fucking luck. First time in years his stares had been noticed, then the bard had wanted to fucking _talk_ and now he'd been recognised, too. "Called it," the bastard shouted as if nothing had happened. Geralt just hoped that he got out of town fast enough before a freaking mob formed.

His hopes sank when he heard heavy steps behind him. Oh, great. Fucking _bards_. Not a stealthy bone in their body, the lot of them. "A job I've got for ya," a young voice said, but Geralt kept on walking. He had quite enough of Posada. "I beg you."

'Shit.' He stopped. Vesemir always said his heart was too soft.

"A devil- he's been stealin' all our grain," the man explained and Geralt exhaled forcefully and turned. "In advance, I'll pay you. A hundred ducats."

He sighed. "One fifty," he demanded.

He pulled out a hefty coin purse, weighing it in his hands. "I've no doubt you'll come through. You take no prisoners, so I hear." As he offered up the purse the bard from before stepped into view again, looking at him intently. ‘Oh, hell no.’

Geralt swallowed the words that had been on the tip of his tongue. He grabbed the purse and left as quickly as he could.

He was far more surprised than he should be when he heard hurried steps behind him, the wheezing of the bard announcing his presence. "Need a hand?" he called and Geralt rolled his eyes. "I've got two. One for each of the, uh, devil's horns." Was this another attempt at flirting? He could only hope not.

"Go away," he answered gruffly. The last thing he needed was that... that... _bardlet_ trailing after him. No matter how cute he looked.

"I won't be but silent back-up," the bardlet promised, nearly smacking him in the face with his wildly gesturing hands. Geralt doubted that very much. Apparently, he was waiting for a response, because there was a pause before he continued: "Look, I heard your note, and, yes, you're right, maybe real adventures would make better stories."

Roach snorted in amusement. The bard didn't care, though, and kept on babbling: "And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak."

Geralt had to take a steadying breath. How one human could spout so much bullshit in such a short time was beyond him. "It's onion," he grunted, hoping that would shut him up.

It didn't. Why was he even bothering? "Right, yeah. Yeah," the bard said with a quiet voice. This time Geralt didn't hope for silence. Still, what came next was so exceptionally stupid that he had to stop in his tracks: "Oh, I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the- the Butcher of Blaviken."

He closed his eyes and barely kept the pained grimace off his face. This lad was giving him a _headache_. 'Fucking idiot, don't you think, Roach?' He looked at his horse for a moment before turning to the bard. "Come here," he requested and motioned him over.

"Yeah," the bard said eagerly, a wide smile on his face. Geralt almost felt bad for the blow that punched that bard's air from his lungs. Almost. There were a lot of things he didn't need. Least of them a barker.

As the bard was still wheezing and groaning on the ground, Geralt turned and rolled his eyes with exasperation. "Come on, Roach," he said and tugged on her reins.

In hindsight, Geralt shouldn't be surprised that the lad kept following him. He also shouldn't be surprised that he didn't stop talking for one fucking minute, except for when he was unconscious. He really shouldn't be surprised that that got them captured.

'Fuck,' he thought as he woke up, bound to the laughingstock of a bard who, of all things, probably thought his smug comments about 'escaping' and 'witchering' were funny. Shit, how on earth was such an idiot allowed to travel unsupervised? 'Probably isn't,' he thought angrily. By the looks of him he had just escaped from his wetnurse. 'I hate humans sometimes.'

He guessed he should be allowed some surprise given the bard's apparent knowledge of Elder speech. Especially at his impeccable accent. 'Oxenfurt trained, then,' he noted. They really did admit any idiot these days.

As if to further prove his utter idiocy he kept. on. _talking_. 'So, he's not only stupid but blind, too.' Who the _fuck_ kept teasing their captors about their golden palaces while obviously bound in a fucking _stone cave_?

In the end, he didn't remember how he'd managed to talk them out of that death trap. Or why it had been him and not the one who made money with his words. Or how he'd gotten a new lute for the bard on top. Or _why_. Shit, he was going to get an earful from Vesemir that winter. And Eskel. And _Lambert_ , gods above and below, he'd never hear the end of it.

Still, somehow, they walked free. And the bard kept on talking: "Credit where credit is due, that whole reverse psychology thing you did on them was brilliant, by the way." His voice dropped as he tried to imitate Geralt. Annoyingly accurate, if he was honest. "'Kill me. I'm ready.'"

He looked down at him disbelievingly. Did the bard really think himself in a place to humour him?

Judging by the innocent look on his face, yes, he absolutely did. "That's the conclusion," the bard continued. "They just let us go and you give all of Nettly's coin to the elves."

"Filavandrel's lute not gift enough for you?" he asked, doing his best to keep a smile from his face.

"Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn't she?"

Geralt was glad the bard couldn't see him grin at that. He didn't listen to what he was spouting next, but then-

Then, the bard started singing. " _Will the elf king heed / What the witcher entreats? / Is history a wheel / Doomed to repeat?_ " Thankfully, it was him who said: "No, that's... that's shit." Geralt couldn't agree more.

"This is where we part ways, bard, for good."

He expected another joke at that. Maybe even an undignified gasp, or something of that sort. He didn't expect solemnity: "Look, I promised to change the public's tune about you. At least allow me to try."

To his even bigger surprise, the next lines out of the bard's mouth weren't complete rubbish: " _When a humble bard / Graced a ride along / With Geralt of Rivia / Along came this song // When the White Wolf fought / A silver-tongued devil / His army of elves / At his hooves did they revel // They came after me / With masterful deceit / Broke down my lute and / They kicked in my teeth // While the devil's horns / Minced our tender meat / And so cried the Witcher / 'He can't be bleat!'_ "

Geralt tightened the reins sharply. "That's not how it happened," he accused him. "Where's your newfound respect?"

"Respect doesn't make history," the bard answered simply. As if that was a line, he could just come up with without carefully having to craft it for hours. While Geralt was still busy staring dumbstruck, the bard already carried on with his song.

'Shit,' he thought as the slightest of smiles curved his lips upwards. If he hadn't been able to discourage him before, there was no getting rid of him now. He suspected he should care more about that than he did.

Geralt soon discovered a lot of things about the bard. Firstly, his name was Jaskier. 'A pretty name for a pretty man,' his mind supplied unhelpfully.

Secondly, he was dramatic. Came with the profession, he figured. Still, who monologued about a torn seam? For _three hours_ at that?!

That was the third thing — or rather the first: Jaskier never shut up. Not while setting up camp, not when he was wheezing from an impromptu sprint, not while eating, not even while pissing, if he knew Geralt was within earshot. He even talked in his sleep, for fuck's sake. It should be more annoying than it was. And way less attractive.

But Geralt quickly discovered that he enjoyed listening to Jaskier's tales. He also discovered that his stories were decidedly more accurate than his songs. He liked hearing of his time in Oxenfurt, of his lessons, his friends, his mischief. He loved to see his eyes light up when Geralt inquired about a particular professor he'd known in his youth. He _adored_ to hear of his various conquests, always listening intently to hear if he was stumbling over pronouns. He didn't. Pity that.

But even if he had, he was human. And way too young. 'Eighteen, for Melitele's sake,' he thought, 'and still wet behind the ears.' At his age Geralt had already passed the Trial of the Grasses twice, slept with half the witchers his age and slain his first monster. 

Jaskier walked the Path blind for any danger, as if monster teeth and steel swords couldn't hurt him. He gave him three months before he begged to be returned to Oxenfurt, naive as he was. Always chasing skirts, too, blatantly ignoring the marital status of his conquests. He exclusively female conquests. “What do you think, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, unabashedly ogling the barmaid. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Hm,” he answered. It had become his standard reply to the incessant flood of words spilling from the bard’s mouth. ‘Not as pretty as you,’ he thought in the privacy of his mind. “Deserves better,” he muttered quiet enough he hoped the bard wouldn’t hear.

Of course, he did. And pouted adorably. “What, are you doubting my abilities as a lover? I assure you I never left a lover wanting.”

He snorted. “Thinking highly of yourself, do you?”

“Of course. Confidence is practically part of the job description as a bard. Well, excuse me now. I have to see to the needs of a pretty m- uh, maid.” He got up and quickly slipped away.

Geralt was left with his thoughts and his ale. ‘Huh,’ he thought. Jaskier usually didn’t stumble over his words like that. Maybe- He strained his ears but all he could hear was Jaskier conversing with the barmaid. ‘Not a queer, then,’ he decided finally. Still, a pity that. He was very pretty indeed.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has successfully hidden his sexuality from Geralt for seven years. Then, he found out. Here's what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: implied/referenced homophobia, internalized homophobia

The thing was, Jaskier had a secret. He had nursed it since- well, since his early teenage years, although he'd had his suspicions earlier. He'd done a fairly good job of hiding it so far; his parents didn't suspect a thing and neither did most of the people he met. Only a few choice friends from the Academy were in the know, and they- well, they hadn't cared in the slightest. Quite the opposite, truth be told.

It wasn't something _bad_ , not really. Well, it was, depending on who one asked, but it still ranged among the minor offences. Gods forbid, it wasn't like he'd _murdered_ anyone or something. It was a teeny-tiny little one with truly revolting punishments that were entirely undeserved, if anyone asked him. Still, he was doing his best to keep it from Geralt.

It wasn't that he didn't trust the witcher, necessarily. Quite the opposite, he'd trust him with his _life_. It was just that he had trusted a lot of men in the past and that he'd managed to enrage almost all of them. And their fathers. Mothers, too, and sisters, sometimes, and definitely grandparents.

And while Geralt had done nothing to indicate a violent streak — barring that first gut punch, of course, but that was on him, really — so had the others and Jaskier truly had no interest at all to see the steel blade pointed at him — or the silver one, _gods_ , what if Geralt had to use _silver_ , what if he was a monster after all, what-

He tried not to think too much about that. And so, Jaskier did his damnedest to keep Geralt from finding out that he liked men in his bed just as well as women. Maybe even preferred them. Probably preferred them.

The thing was, however, Jaskier was terrible at anything that even remotely had to do with keeping secrets. He was a bard, for Melitele's sake. Subtlety was as far from his very spirit as it got. He was loud, bright, and colourful, talked without thinking and 'stealth' had been erased from his vocabulary _decades_ ago.

So, he was bound to slip up at some point. Really, the slip-up was no surprise at all; he was rather shocked how long it had taken for it to happen. His travelling companion was a _witcher_ for fuck's sake, it shouldn't have been that hard! It shouldn't have taken him seven years, Melitele have mercy!

Not that Jaskier had wanted Geralt to find out, he'd been terrified of it for most of the time. Most of the time because there had always been some part of him that had- well, hoped. Hoped for things that Jaskier didn't dare to put into words, not even in the privacy of his mind.

In the meantime, he tried to distract himself from that gorgeous man he was travelling with, who had a chiselled jaw and a body formed by the gods, and- he was drifting off again. He tried to distract himself with pretty girls and pretty boys alike — if he could find one who was amenable to risk being disowned and persecuted by the law for a night just like he was.

They were staying in an inn in Temeria where Geralt had a contract and Jaskier had an audience. He had been playing for half an hour maybe when he felt the burning stare of hungry eyes on him.

He spun and was faced with a handsome young man, endowed with a sturdy frame — a smith's apprentice, perhaps — and wonderful golden curls framing his face, a halo like a honeyed sunflower and- He smiled brightly and winked at the barmaid behind him. The man blushed adorably but returned the smile. 'Gotcha,' he thought triumphantly and carried on with his performance.

Geralt wouldn't return for another few hours, so there was no danger from the witcher at least. The only obstacle were the other patrons and those weren't a problem, really. He knew that dance well enough and it had been quite some time since he had been found out.

He jigged and sang happily, always careful to smile extra brightly when he danced to the lad again, always careful to wink at people near him, never at him, never directly. For an outsider there was nothing out of the ordinary. For them it was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Once he had finished his performance, he sidled up next to the apprentice boy. "Good evening," he said to no-one in particular.

The boy nodded and looked at him questioningly. "Would you like a drink, maybe?" he asked, obviously very nervous, and very cutely. "For your, uh- sore throat?"

Jaskier flashed him a bright smile. "That would be wonderful," he sighed and made sure that the first three buttons of his doublet were open. "These performances are terribly straining, sometimes."

He flagged down the barmaid and said: "Whatever Jaskier orders. It's on me." He proceeded to order an ale for himself and Jaskier followed suit.

As soon as the barmaid left again, he laughed a little more loudly than he would normally. "I see you know who I am," he said delightedly. "I fear you have me at the disadvantage. I didn't catch your name."

"Mark," he answered and handed him his ale. "I'm afraid, it's not as poetic as yours."

Jaskier took a deep gulp to calm his nerves. "Mark," he repeated thoughtfully. "No, it isn't. But..." He giggled and shook his head. "Oh, no, that's too silly."

His eyes lit up. "What is?"

He smiled mischievously. "You must swear not to tell anyone."

Mark leaned in closer. "I won't."

Jaskier leaned in, too, so that his lips almost grazed his ear when he whispered: "When I was in the Academy, my friends used to call me a lark. That rhymes, so I guess we fit after all."

Mark leaned back and laughed quietly. "You're right, it _is_ silly. But I guess we do."

After that they indulged in a little bit of small talk as they drained their liquid courage. Jaskier could see Mark trying to build up the guts for a question he shouldn't even want to ask and he wasn't about to pressure him. That only ended in arguments and arguments drew attention and attention was the last thing either of them wanted.

When Mark had raised his tankard for the fourth time only to find it empty, he finally cleared his throat: "I, uh- saw you had a horse in the stable. Would you- would you like me to take a look at its shoes before you continue with your journey?" It was a flimsy excuse for anyone who was listening, but as good as any. 

"Oh, I would love to!" Jaskier said cheerily and stood. He would surely not let an opportunity like this pass. Geralt hadn't returned and probably wouldn't before sunrise, so they were relatively safe. He tried not to indulge in his desires when the witcher was around for fear that he could smell another man's seed on him — he had an awfully good nose, after all. But like this he'd be able to draw himself a bath and smell of nothing but his soaps when they saw each other again on the morrow.

Jaskier gladly led Mark to the stables. A few horses were happily munching on the hay and barely raised their heads when they passed them. No Roach, though.

As soon as they had found themselves an empty box, he pulled the apprentice into a gentle but unambiguous kiss. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered against his lips.

Mark was very nervous; Jaskier could feel the fluttering of his heart when he pressed up against his chest. Still, he nodded frantically and raised his hands to Jaskier's doublet. "I've never done this before," he confessed.

He smiled and kissed him again. "Don't worry," he said as he trailed kisses along his jaw, "I'll make this good for you." When he nudged his knee between his legs, he found him half hard already. Mark groaned and his head thumped back against the wooden barn wall as Jaskier continued his ministrations.

"Just lean back," he whispered and placed one last kiss on the juncture of his neck and shoulders, "and lean back." Gracefully, he dropped to his knees and began to unlace the other man's breeches while peppering kisses onto his skin, whispering sweet nothings. "You're beautiful," he murmured, relishing the feeling of fingers tangled in his hair, although he wasn't sure if he said it to Mark or himself, "you're wanted, you're just perfect."

There was an awkward harrumph behind him and Jaskier was on his feet in record time. "Shit," he cursed as soon as he saw who had walked in on them, Roach's reins in hand, "oh fuck. Oh, fucking shit, Geralt, I swear this is not what it looks like!"

"Hmm," Geralt said, talkative as ever. "To me it looks like you were about to suck another man's dick." There wasn't the slightest quiver on his face, betraying what he truly felt.

"Uh-" Jaskier stammered and looked to Mark for help. The apprentice, however, looked like he had a hard-enough time not to faint and piss himself as it was. "Then, uh, it's exactly what it looks like." His heart was beating in his throat and he quickly averted his gaze in shame. "Look, Geralt, I'm sorry, I- I'll leave, I'll be gone before you can blink, I- I'll pay you, whatever you want, just please don't report us, don't-"

"Shut up, Jaskier," the witcher interrupted his panicked rambling and turned away. "I don't care. Enjoy your night." The strained look on his face betrayed his lies.

Jaskier scarcely dared to breathe until Geralt had freed Roach from her tack and he was sure that the witcher had left. “Fuck.” Only then his knees buckled and he fell limply to the ground. "Oh, fuck," he cursed again for good measure. "Now that was a mood killer if there ever was one."

"Holy shit," Mark breathed, collapsing next to him. "I thought my time had come."

"Me too," Jaskier muttered. "Shit," he said again, raking his fingers through his hair. "Shit! That was far too close. What am I supposed to do now?" How was he supposed to ever face Geralt again? How was the _witcher_ supposed to ever share a room with him again? Oh, this was his worst nightmare come to life, this was- not what was important now. There was still the apprentice boy whose cock he'd intended to suck. Not that that would be happening now or any time soon.

He looked over to Mark who was shaking like a leaf. "Go home," Jaskier said softly. "That was enough of a shock for half a lifetime, I'll wager."

"Are you sure?" the boy asked insecurely. "Shouldn't we... try to explain or anything? Shouldn't you run for your life?"

Jaskier took another shaky breath. That was the only sensible reaction to this situation, truly. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that kept him from running. Probably the lack of disgust on Geralt’s face when he’d seen them. "No,” he decided firmly. “No, that won't be necessary. Geralt might be a lot of things, but he's no liar. I'll sort this out."

He staggered to his feet and towards the exit. Before following Geralt into the night he turned back one more time. "Next time choose a lover who doesn't travel with a witcher, hm?" he said with a tentative smile. "Good night, pretty boy."

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? I guess the heavier stuff will come with the next chapter. Leave some comments or come chat with me over at my [tumblr](https://dhwty-writes.tumblr.com/).  
> Updates will be once a week on Fridays.


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